The Art of War: A Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  Gnuly was thinking about how the world had turned, again, when the senior NFO, Lieutenant (junior grade) Doug Shepherd, said on the intercom, “We have a high-speed bogey at three o’clock. Thirty miles and closing fast. On a course to intercept. It’s above us and descending.”

  “How far are we from China?”

  “One hundred and forty-five miles east of Hainan Island.”

  Oh hell, Gnuly thought, here we go again. The Chinese had already harassed U.S. patrol planes three times this year. Twelve or thirteen years ago, one hit a P-3. Killed the fucking Chinese bastard in the fighter—he went into the ocean—and the P-3 made an emergency landing in Hainan, where the Chinese held the crew for eleven days before releasing them. The pilot was now a commander; Gnuly had met him once. All these thoughts shot through his head in a second or two.

  Gnuly left the plane on autopilot. A steady course might prevent some damn fool chink from inadvertently hitting him. Not that there was much he could do about a Chinese aircraft zooming around, with or without hostile intentions. The Poseidon had no antiaircraft weapons whatsoever. Nor was it aerobatic or supersonic. It was a military version of the Boeing 737-800, an airliner.

  “Hell,” Whitey said, and stared out his window, trying to catch a glimpse of the oncoming airplane.

  Then he saw it, slightly above them, descending toward them. “Collision course,” he said, his voice rising. “Right at us! Holy damn.”

  The airplane, a fighter, slashed right in front of them, missing by what seemed a few feet. The Poseidon jolted as it went through the fighter’s wake. The fighter went out to the left in a climbing turn. Gnuly watched it. It was high, curving around to come in behind them.

  “You guys in back get ready. This guy is gonna buzz us again.”

  “Or hit us,” Whitey muttered. He concentrated on the instrument panel. If the autopilot kicked off, he wanted to be ready to handfly this beast.

  The Chinese pilot came zooming in, seeming to aim his plane right at the cockpit. It looked like he was going to ram, yet at the very last second he dipped his wing and passed in front of them on knife-edge, a ninety-degree angle of bank, so close they could see his helmeted head in the cockpit. Extraordinarily close. Once again the Poseidon bucked as it crossed the fighter’s wash.

  “Jesus!” Whitey roared. “He damn near got us.”

  Gnuly took several seconds to get himself under control. He had thought they were going to die. “How close is the cavalry?” Gnuly asked Shep. He meant American fighters, of course.

  “An hour away, at least,” was the answer.

  “Get on the horn. Get them coming this way. Have Mike tell base ops what is going on.” Mike was the other NFO, Lieutenant Mike Fischer. “Give them our position. If we go down, at least they’ll know where to look.”

  “Yep,” Shep said, and changed radio channels.

  “Got it,” Mike echoed.

  “There’s another fighter a thousand feet above us, crossing our nose right to left,” Whitey said. “Got him in sight.”

  “The wingman,” Gnuly said.

  “Yep.”

  “Gimme a camera, somebody. I want a photo if he comes by again.”

  The fighter did make another pass, but Gnuly was still trying to get the camera that had been passed to him turned on and focused when it came up the port side in afterburner and crossed right in front of them, seeming close enough to touch, its wingtip almost scraping the cockpit. Gnuly managed a photo as the fighter headed west, toward Hainan. It was at least two miles away when he clicked the shutter.

  Then they were gone and the incident was over. Two fighters disappearing into the haze toward Hainan, the Poseidon still on autopilot, the crew wondering what it all meant. If anything.

  It was an international incident, reported worldwide. Another Chinese-American incident. A Chinese spokesman said, “Continued surveillance by the United States threatens to undo previous diplomatic efforts.”

  Jake Grafton read the article in The Washington Post. So did Sally Chan, in Norfolk, in The Virginian-Pilot. Choy Lee read that article, too.

  *

  After two FBI agents showed up at the hospital, Willie Varner and I took the van back to the shop. We got into his car and headed back to his place, where I was bunking.

  “I guess you don’t need me watchin’ that feed from Grafton’s anymore.”

  “You’re done.”

  “Maybe that Kerry bitch will kill someone else.”

  “I don’t think so. Grafton will take care of her.”

  “Gonna be a nice little check, when I get it.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  Willie the Wire looked me over and shook his head. “This shit ain’t good for your soul, Carmellini,” he said. “Mine either.”

  “Meet you in hell,” I muttered.

  At his place he got out a bottle of bourbon, poured a glass neat, handed it to me, then went to bed.

  I sipped bourbon and thought about the interrogation. I almost killed Fish when he told me about planting the bomb in my apartment. Of course, he had lots more to spill at that point, so I didn’t. Just caused him more pain. Lots more. Killing him would have given me a lot of satisfaction, but it would have been an easy out for him. Toward the end, he was begging me to shoot him. That’s when I was glad I hadn’t finished him. Now I was wishing I had.

  Ah me. Why is it we are supposed to be civilized, obey the rules of a civilized society, when the enemies of our society aren’t civilized?

  That was a conundrum I wasn’t smart enough to solve.

  Any way you looked at it, Anna Modin was dead. Gone. Gone forever, and I was left here to march on through this putrid morass of stupidity, self-interest and evil.

  Was I feeling sorry for Anna or myself?

  I finished off that glass of whiskey, drank one more, then stretched out on the couch. I was replaying Fish’s screams in my memory when the alcohol put me to sleep.

  *

  Sal Molina arrived two minutes prior to Harry Estep. Jake Grafton handed him Tommy Carmellini’s notes and a cup of coffee, and called for coffee for Harry when he got there. Both men read Carmellini’s notes in silence. As they were reading, Robin knocked, then came in carrying two breakfasts on cafeteria trays. Jake nodded at her, and she gave one tray to each of the visitors. She looked a question at Jake, and he shook his head no. He would get something to eat later.

  When Robin left, Estep angrily asked, “How’d Carmellini get this stuff outta this Fish guy? Vega.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Grafton shot back.

  “Tortured him.”

  Jake Grafton shrugged. “I didn’t ask because I don’t want to know. There it is in black and white. Two days before, we intercepted Zoe Kerry talking to this guy on a cell phone.”

  “Intercepted?” Estep growled. “You got a warrant?”

  “No.”

  “We can’t use that in court.”

  “Want to listen?” He turned to his computer, and in less than a minute all three men heard her voice.

  When the conversation was over, Estep said a cuss word.

  “So what are you going to do about Zoe Kerry?” Grafton asked, eyeing the FBI man.

  Estep lost it. “What the hell can I do? Fish, Vega, won’t testify. This statement to Carmellini isn’t admissible in court. That recording is worthless. The Justice Department won’t prosecute. Kerry will just laugh at us.”

  “Well, you better think of something,” Grafton said, staring at Harry. “You and I know those notes are the gospel. She sicced Fish on Mario Tomazic, James Maxwell, Paul Reinicke and me. He put a bomb in Carmellini’s apartment and killed Carmellini’s girl. He assassinated the last known man who brought down Air Force One, trying to kill the president. Fish says he did Carmellini on his own because he saw him, knew his face. You have several hundred agents investigating all these crimes, and Fish admits he did them. Now what the hell are you going to do?”

  Harry Estep threw Carmellini’s
notes on Grafton’s desk. They scattered all over. The admiral left them where they landed.

  “Sal, you want to say anything?”

  “Why?”

  Jake Grafton took a sip of coffee, as if this were just another staff meeting. “Because he was paid.”

  “Who paid him?”

  “Kerry.”

  “Who paid her?”

  “I don’t know. She does. Harry?”

  Harry Estep was pale and sweating. His eyes bulged. He stared at Jake Grafton. “You…”

  “Man, I just told you how it is. You’re the interim director of the FBI. Until Sal’s boss throws you under the bus. Now, Interim Director, what are you going to do?”

  “Arrest her. There’s nothing else I can do.”

  “I agree. She’ll try to contact Fish sooner or later and smell a rat when she can’t get him. Toss her in the can. But get busy investigating her. Not him. She’s got a contact somewhere. Get a warrant to intercept her calls, search her computer. She’s got a bank account somewhere that she uses to pay Fish, or she’s got a mattress full of cash. That money is somewhere. Goddamm it, find the money! But don’t get the idea you can let her walk around while you investigate. If she realizes Fish is in custody and calls the money man or sends him an e-mail, he’ll know the deception is over.”

  “So?”

  “Damn it, don’t you see? The murders were all a diversion to keep our eyes off the ball.”

  “What ball?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “All this on your say-so.”

  “I didn’t set this up, you idiot. I’m just telling you about it.”

  “We’ll decide what to do,” Harry Estep snarled.

  “Better get at it. She could be trying to call Fish even as we speak.”

  “Fuck you, Grafton.”

  “That remark won’t help an iota.”

  “It makes me feel better. Got any whiskey in your desk?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Harry Estep said, and rose from his chair.

  “If you’re going to arrest her, better get at it,” Grafton said.

  Estep was in a foul mood. “Unlike you, we have to get a warrant first.” He strode to the door, opened it and slammed it shut behind him.

  Molina rose from his chair.

  “Not you,” Grafton said sharply to the president’s man. “Sit.”

  Molina didn’t move.

  “Harry has a full plate,” Grafton said, “but you people at the White House have been living in la-la land and dancing between the raindrops. Now it’s time to face the music. Sit down.”

  Molina sat.

  “Whose bright idea was it to have the navy bring five aircraft carriers into Norfolk over the Christmas holidays?”

  Molina stared. “Five carriers in Norfolk? This is the first I’ve heard about it.”

  “Unfortunately, the navy heard about it months ago. Maybe six months ago. Some White House weenie ordered the CNO to order all the Atlantic Fleet carriers to Norfolk for the holidays, and McKiernan obeyed. As it happens, government spending will hit the debt ceiling in early December, and Congress will probably be reluctant to raise it. Oracle that I am, I predict another round of posturing about the debt ceiling. Remember what happened the last time?”

  Molina sat silent, looking at Grafton. The telephone buzzed.

  Grafton answered it.

  Robin. “Zoe Kerry is here to brief you.”

  “Tell her I’m busy. Tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” The receptionist hung up.

  Grafton swiveled back to Molina. “Someone at the White House told Cart McKiernan to put those carriers in Norfolk over the holidays. The Chinese know about it; they’ve been hacking into the navy’s computers. God knows what other nation knows our plans. The navy’s computers are apparently easily hacked. They might as well make a public announcement. One nuclear explosion and half the fleet will be wiped out, a million lives lost.” He pulled out the map Ilin had sent and handed it over.

  Sal Molina stared at it.

  “That’s a Chinese product. A Russian spy got it, and a high official in the SVR passed it to me.”

  It took almost a minute for Molina to digest. “You’re implying the Chinese government will destroy these ships.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility.”

  “An attack on Norfolk?”

  “It will probably be more subtle than the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.”

  “Subtle?” Molina was still trying to understand. “How?” he asked.

  “The bomb may already be there.”

  *

  Willie Varner and I were sitting in the long-term parking lot at Dulles at nine o’clock that morning in the lock-shop van watching airliners land and take off when the FBI’s bomb squad showed up in an armored truck. One of the dudes got out of the passenger seat and came over to the van.

  “Are you Carmellini?”

  “Yep.”

  “Got ID?”

  I showed the guy my CIA pass. He took a hard look, sighed and handed it back. I almost asked him for his ID, but thought better of it.

  “That’s the car.” I pointed at my ride.

  “A bomb in it, you think?”

  “Yep. Under the hood. I have the keys if you want them.”

  He surveyed the cars, the sky, an airliner that serenaded us as it headed for Europe or Denver or wherever, and the people pulling luggage on wheels through the lot. He was a medium-sized wiry black guy with a buzz cut. He had a pinch of snuff in his lower lip. After a long look at my Benz, he spit on the pavement. “The office said I was to get the bomb out and let you have the car back.”

  “We already have the man who put it there, and he has confessed. There won’t be fingerprints. Might be some DNA, but we don’t need it.”

  “Wanna move this van? Back up a hundred feet and help keep people away.”

  “Okay.”

  “Gimme your keys.” He looked at my Benz. “What year is that?”

  “A ’64.”

  “An antique. Kinda ratty. Aren’t you about ready for a new ride?”

  “I’m working up to it.”

  I backed the van up about a hundred feet and turned off the engine.

  “See, ever’body thinks you oughta get a new car,” Willie said.

  “I just hope these guys don’t blow up my car and themselves, so I’ll have something to trade in.”

  “You the tightest dude I know,” Willie grumped. “Kinda ashamed to be seen with you around that scruffy old thing.”

  “Let’s get out and herd pedestrians.”

  Willie said a common cuss word, and we climbed out of the van. I kept my cuss words to myself; they didn’t do me any good when I said them, so why bother?

  The EOD specialists didn’t blow themselves up. After they removed the bomb, six sticks of dynamite, from under the hood, the bomb squad guys drove away. Willie and I put a new battery in the Benz.

  “Six sticks,” Willie said. “Enough to spread you and this fuckin’ clunker all over this parking lot. They’d have scraped you up with a spoon to get enough to bury.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously, Tommy. You oughta think about gettin’ into another line of work.”

  “I am, dude. I am.”

  “I’ve heard that song before outta you,” he said disgustedly. “Three or four times. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  The Benz started on the first crank. After I gave him ten bucks for the tollbooth, Willie drove the van out of the lot, and I rolled out behind him. I was headed for a mall to buy some more new duds; then I had an appointment downtown.

  Another line of work. No shit, Willie.

  I was on the way to Washington on the limited-access road when it came over me, all of a sudden. I started sobbing and my eyes teared up.

  I pulled over on the shoulder to let it pass. I couldn’t stop sobbing.

  About two minutes later a trooper pulled up behind me. H
e spent a moment in his car, probably calling in my license plate, then got out and walked up to the driver’s side window. I ran the window down. I was a little better, but I must have been a sight. He took one look, sizing me up, and said, “Move your car when you can.”

  I nodded.

  “A woman?”

  I nodded again.

  “Been there, buddy. You’ll live through it.” He turned and walked back to his cruiser and left.

  Three minutes later I was my usual sour self, so I started the engine and got the Benz under way.

  *

  I stopped in the men’s room on the way out of the mall and put on a set of my new threads. Underwear, socks, dry-clean trousers, leather shoes, a shirt with a collar that would take a tie when necessary, a sweater. Their off-the-rack sport coats fit me like I was wearing an empty feed bag with three holes in it. Plus a new belt. I was wearing new from the skin out.

  On the way downtown, I called Doc Gordon, who was hanging around the Willard with a couple of other guys, looking for anyone who might be interested in little old me when I arrived. I circled the block a few times, keeping an eye on traffic. Reasonably certain I had no tail, I drove into the parking garage and wound my way to the top floor. Took the elevator down. No one paid the slightest attention to me. Doc was waiting when I came out of the elevator. He ignored me. Willis Coffey was seated in the lobby looking at a street map.

  I ducked into the men’s room and sat on the throne until five minutes of twelve, then walked out and went into the corner bar. Five people in there, four men and a woman.

  On Friday evenings this bar was one of Washington’s top meat markets for the professional and government crowd. If you looked the part and couldn’t get picked up here, you were essentially without prospects. I took a seat at the bar, and the barman handed me a bar menu. “What’ll it be?”

  I considered. One drink at noon shouldn’t put me over the edge, and God knew I needed it. I named a bourbon. “Neat,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Hell, make it a double.”

  “You got it.”

  I glanced around to see if I could spot my Russian spy. Nope.